


when spring comes

by asofthaven



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Kita runs a Wisteria House, M/M, Minor Violence, Slow Build, Suna is a demon slayer, demon slayers AU, kny au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asofthaven/pseuds/asofthaven
Summary: His mission was to investigate rumors that a pack of demons had taken over the entire mountainside area and decimated the surrounding villages. At the top of a slow-sloping hill, surveying a village cast in shadow by the looming mountain, Suna stops. The air is thick with a wrongness Suna can’t place immediately until he inhales. He quickly presses his nose into the fabric of his sleeve and exhales heavily.For a moment, he wonders if it is worth the continued march forward. He’s certain he could write his report at this very moment:Confirmed. All villages lost. Stench of decay and demons unbearable. Abandon grounds.Suna Rintarou learns to build a home.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 30
Kudos: 133





	when spring comes

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to know anything about the demon slayer/kny universe to understand this fic. Important info is explained in fic C:
> 
> **10/18/20:** Now with [stunning art of demon slayer Suna](https://twitter.com/yannni_hq/status/1313154239317700611). Go check it out!!

Weeks ago, when Suna first accepted this mission and thought there might be some ease to it, he’d scoffed at the suggestion that he hadn’t prepared enough supplies.

Ojiro had simply frowned. Overhead their crows circled, shouting their respective mission details repetitively. _Well, it’ll be there_ , Ojiro said, just before taking the fork in the road that would take him east, per his crow’s direction. _Even if the clan has died, the Wisteria House will be there._

_I’ll be fine. It’s a short trip._

He is not fine, and it was not a short trip. Kei, his acerbic crow, urged him further and further south until Suna was half convinced the crow’s aim was to have him walk into the sea.

But no: Suna arrives at the base of a mountain at the end of autumn, his rations worryingly low and exhaustion pulsing at his temple. The brutally cold wind cuts at his skin through the fabric of his uniform. Lack of sleep makes his eyes blur, and the strain from his increasingly common bouts with demons leaves his muscles sore and heavy. Even now, in bright sunlight, Suna keeps one hand on the hilt of his blade. 

His mission was to investigate rumors that a pack of demons had taken over the entire mountainside area and decimated the surrounding villages. At the top of a slow-sloping hill, surveying a village cast in shadow by the looming mountain, Suna stops. The air is thick with a wrongness Suna can’t place immediately until he inhales. He quickly presses his nose into the fabric of his sleeve and exhales heavily.

For a moment, he wonders if it is worth the continued march forward. He’s certain he could write his report at this very moment: _Confirmed. All villages lost. Stench of decay and demons unbearable. Abandon grounds._

Suna’s feet are leaden as he walks through the village. The scene is the same as the ones he passed through on his way here. Only the splintered doorways and chunks of half-eaten flesh remain as a testament to the demons that tore through it.

Suna stops again at the edge of the village, straggly trees growing into a forest on one side of him as a dirt road leads towards the base of the mountain. There’s blackened ground and some burned-out houses here, a last-ditch attempt at warding off the demons, maybe.

In the distance, the sound of gurgling water reaches him. Kei rests on a low branch, calling out _south-south_ tetchily. Suna considers chucking his pack at the bird.

Then, on the breeze, Suna catches the smell of smoke. Faint, but enough to think that someone was still living beyond this destruction. Suna, breathing through the fabric of his sleeve again, keeps going.

And past the quiet and decaying village, just before the land gives way completely to the mountains on one side and the river and forest on the other, he comes to a small estate. The crest is faded from sun exposure, but Suna recognizes the wisteria it depicts. Faintly, he can smell it, too—a wisteria tree is planted on the estate, though the branches he can see overtop the gate have lost all their color this close to winter. It’s the single protection a person can have against a demon without a _nichirin_ blade or a blazing sun overhead.

Suna sighs, all of his exhaustion rearing and settling into the marrow of his bones the moment he registers his location.

“I shouldn’t have taken this mission,” he mutters. He knocks, announcing, “My name is Suna Rintarou, a member of the demon slayers corp.”

His knock seems to echo forever.

_Even if the clan has died_... Suna looks upwards. The sun is setting, and with this much carnage, Suna is unlikely to find a suitable place to spend the night. And he can’t discount the possibility that the demons will return come nightfall. 

Suna places a hand on the gate, but it swings open before he can test it himself.

A young man in a grey kimono and a maroon and white striped _haori_ holds the gate open. “Welcome,” he says, and bows. His glance is quick over Suna's uniform and sword, before they rest briefly on Suna's face. He steps back and gestures for Suna to come inside. "I will prepare a bath an’ dinner."

His face is so carefully blank that Suna hesitates. But the sun is still out, painting the stranger’s cheeks orange with sunset. Suna asks, "Are you the only one left from this village?"

"No.” His voice has the slow lilt of the countryside, an informality at odds with the way he holds himself. “The ones who managed to survive ‘til mornin’ are here as well." He delivers this with a matter-of-factness that is strangely reassuring, his expression never wavering.

Suna drops his hand from his hilt and steps inside. Through the gate is a large wisteria tree, situated halfway between the gate and the simple house within its walls. A few vivid blooms stubbornly remain near the bottommost branches; the rest of the tree has been carefully pruned to bareness.

Suna assesses the man as they walk, frowning a bit at the composure with which he holds himself. Most people are emotional following a demon attack, but this man has the weathered countenance of a demon slayer. Suna narrows his eyes. “Are you the master of the estate?”

There’s a moment of quiet before the man answers, “Yes. My name’s Kita Shinsuke.” He stops short of the entrance to bow at Suna, his _haori_ lifting with the wind. “I will be in your care.”

“I should be the one saying that,” Suna points out, but Kita has already slid the door open and stepped inside.

Suna’s questions are abandoned as the warmth of the house envelops him, the aroma of rice and tea nearly bringing him to his knees with gratitude. Kita leads Suna down a long hallway, past a closed doorway where Suna can hear the scuffles of people moving about, before turning into another hallway at the back of the house. He ushers Suna into a simple room with two low tables and cushions. The silhouette of the greenery in the back of the estate is visible through the _shoji_ doors at the other end of the room.

Kita remains in the hallway. “Please feel free to use this room durin’ your stay. Do you have any injuries that require tendin’ to?”

“No,” Suna says; any injuries he’s gotten on the way here have been minor. He drops his pack on the floor, surveying the room; it looks like every Wisteria House room he’s ever stayed in, and the familiarity relieves him. “You said others survived the attack?”

Kita inclines his head in agreement. “They are in the rooms closest to the wisteria tree.”

Suna sheds his uniform jacket as he speaks, desperate to get out of the grimy clothing. “Are they all from the village I just passed through?”

Again, Kita inclines his head in the tiniest of nods. “Yes. I’ve not heard word from any of the other villages.”

It’s a question, Suna realizes when he looks up to meet Kita’s gaze. How many villages and towns did Suna walk through before coming to the foot of this otherwise uninhabitable mountain?

Suna folds his uniform to avoid Kita’s unwavering gaze. “You wouldn’t have,” is all he says.

Kita’s response is a small, tired sigh. “I suppose not.” He turns to leave, adds, “The bath’ll be ready momentarily.”

The door slides shut silently.

Suddenly irritated, and with the smell of death still in his nostrils, Suna seats himself at the low table and pulls paper from his pack to write his notes. He’ll compile them into a full report after he’s gotten a chance to speak to the villagers, to explore what remains of the village, to walk the perimeter at night and see what the moonlight brings.

Suna closes his eyes. Kita’s sigh is still echoing in his head, an endless loop of the same resignation Suna feels at his very core. _All villages lost_ , he had thought, at the top of the hill. But not this one. 

He opens his eyes, staring hard at the ceiling. Despite everything, not this one.

  
  
  


Suna’s footsteps are unnaturally loud in the stillness of the village. He calls out at regular intervals, walking slowly. With the morning sun high in the sky, there’s no risk of being caught off-guard by demons along the streets. But he doesn’t know what the dark interiors of the buildings might be hiding, so he surveys cracked windows and torn-off doorways critically.

A few steps behind him are two surviving villagers, carrying shovels on a cart rolling between the two of them. Yesterday, after Suna had eaten and bathed, Kita relayed a request that the surviving villagers had for him. And so here he was, using his sharp eyes to detect even the slightest movement that may suggest a person survived.

Kita gave Suna a long look before he left, as if he knew what Suna had been thinking when he first looked upon the town from the crest of the hill. As if he knew that Suna would have gone out anyways, to assess damage and assemble information.

And then Kita had handed him a shovel, as if to say _You might as well do this, too_.

Much of Kita’s communication is layered, Suna reflects as he pauses to let the two men catch up to him. If he weren’t paying attention, he might not have noticed—Kita says precisely what he means to, and even more in his pauses and breaths.

Suna records every name the men give him as they carefully collect those bodies that can be identified and the jagged remains that cannot. The older of the two deals with the bodies while Suna and the younger one dig large graves by family homes. They otherwise work in silence, and Suna knows well enough to leave people to the heaviness of their grief.

Last night, while Kita served tea, the survivors had come in twos and threes to relay a story Suna has heard countless times over his years of being a demon slayer. The demons came, the people screamed, and by morning all that was left were the weeping huddled behind the safety the wisteria tree provided.

Suna, face carefully neutral, dutifully recorded it all in precise writing, noting any abnormalities without pause. If he kept himself calm, he could ignore how useless his sword and uniform were when faced with the pain people have already endured. It has been, and remains, his best skill—how to quickly and efficiently use the information he learns to his advantage.

Like this: the fact that despite accounting for the names of the deceased provided by the survivors, there were five bodies that remained unidentified, grouped by the entrance of the village. North, the same direction Suna came in. The same direction anyone fleeing the other, abandoned villages may have come from.

Suna’s hand rests on the hilt of his sword, but only speculation can be found there.

They finished the final burial just as the sun began to set. Eyeing the dying sunlight critically, Suna asks the men to sit in the cart so that he can get them back to the estate before dark.

“You don’t seem that strong,” the older man says, not unkindly.

Suna smiles, a practiced, empty expression. “I assure you that if I have the strength to cut through a demon’s neck, I can carry you two.”

The old man still seems doubtful, but reluctantly sits. The young man is already in the cart, half-asleep with an arm slung around a shovel. Once Suna is sure that they are as secure as they can be, he sets off at a sprint.

The extra weight only slows him a little—Suna’s fast, abnormally so, as he channels his breathing and funnels energy into his legs. Suna imagines himself as water currents as he wills himself faster, the light blurring from red to deep blue across the ground.

Already, the faint sound of snoring is coming from the younger man. Suna is just about to turn to check if both of them were asleep when the old man suddenly asks, “What happened to the ones we couldn’t find?”

He sounds like he knows. He sounds like he wants Suna to tell him otherwise.

Suna doesn’t break his stride. He has never been good at euphemisms, and it would be cruel to lie. “They were eaten.”

For several seconds, the only sound is that of the wheels of the cart over uneven dirt. “I see,” the old man finally says. It’s a heartaching sound of acceptance that Suna, despite everything, still doesn’t know how to deal with.

He spares a glance back, and see that the old man has bent his head, a decorative hairpin he retrieved from a bundle of blood-soaked cloth clasped tightly in one hand. Suna turns back to the path, says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t respond, and Suna lets the weight of the silence fall heavily over him. In time, this memory too will fade, and only ever-growing weariness will follow as a reminder. He will always be too late to save _someone_. 

It’s the nature of the work. 

  
  
  


They return just as the last of the sun’s rays have disappeared beyond the mountainside. Someone, presumably Kita, has lit an oil lamp and left it hung by the gate.

Suna rouses the two men from their sleep, leaving the cart outside the gate, and has them walk in front of him with the oil lamp. The scent of wisteria should keep the demons away, but Suna’s been wrong before.

Kita greets them at the entrance to the house with a bow. “Dinner is ready.”

The men grumble their thanks, exhaustion evident in their backs as they file past Suna and towards the large room supper is served in. Kita stops Suna before he can follow the two men down the hall.

“They won’t leave you alone if you eat with ‘em,” Kita says in response to Suna’s quirked eyebrow. “You can take your dinner in the kitchen or your room.”

The image of the old man and the hairpin are seared into his mind. Suna would rather not put off the inevitable. “I should let everyone know, first.”

“I see,” Kita says simply. He pats Suna’s shoulder once before starting down the hall. “I’ll leave a bowl for you in the kitchen, then.”

Suna stands a moment in the doorway, letting the breeze cool the sweat from his skin before sliding the front door shut. When he reaches the large room, the chatter ceases immediately. He keeps his face impassive as he confirms what he’s certain they all knew: there were no other survivors, and the bodies that weren’t found, won’t be.

His walk to the kitchen is a haggard one. Suna collapses by a low table next to the small window and rests his head atop it. A trio of bowls are set up for him, but Suna can’t find it in himself to reach for the food now.

He keeps his eyes closed until the sound of voices from the other room fades, until he’s thinking aimlessly of his sword and his own village, which no longer exists and likely never will again.

When he was a child, he wanted to travel the world. When he was a child, he always assumed he would have a place to return to, and an audience to share his findings with. When he was a child, it seemed impossible that either of those things could lead to anything other than a happily lit path. But of course, he didn’t believe in demons then.

He’s startled into waking when someone places something over his shoulders. Suna sits up groggily to find Kita standing over him, a thin blanket now draped over Suna’s shoulders.

He grips at the edges, on the off chance that Kita will try and take it back. The kitchen is empty except for them, and the hallway is silent.

“How long was I asleep?” Suna asks. His stomach growls. He reaches for the bowls still set out for him instinctively. The soup is lukewarm, and he drains it all in one go.

“Not long,” Kita says, with a tiny upturn of his lips that might almost be a smile. Suna stares, then blinks himself back into awareness. How rude does a person have to be to fall asleep at a kitchen, with food in front of them?

He opens his mouth to apologize.

“It’s fine,” Kita assures him, evidently reading Suna’s mind. “It’s a favored spot for corps members to sleep in; I’m not surprised or offended by it.”

Suna pauses with a chopstick-full of rice mid-air. For a prolonged moment of stupidity, Suna had assumed he was the first demon slayer Kita ever housed. It’s just that this village is so remote, and the surrounding areas so sparsely populated that it doesn’t seem likely that any demon slayer would just _happen_ across it. 

But Wisteria Houses are rarely far from where demons lurk, and this mountainside was a known entity long before Suna arrived here.

He isn’t sure what to call the disappointment that mounts in him at the realization that Kita has treated dozens of demon slayers just as this, with his calm mannerisms and attention. Suna shoves rice into his mouth to avoid examining it.

“There’s another village towards the river, yes?” He saw another road through the forest this morning, grooves of wheels well-worn into the dirt.

Kita hums an acknowledgment.

“How far is it from here?”

“Two days.” Kita stokes the fire in the middle of the kitchen as he speaks. “A day and a half if you walk through the night.”

A day and a half. If he leaves tomorrow morning, he should make it by nightfall the next day. Given the frequency with which the demons have attacked the surrounding towns, Suna is certain that if he waits much longer, he will be too late.

He might already be.

Kita adjusts. Suna turns his head to find Kita’s golden gaze fixed attentively on him. “When do you plan to go?”

Suna is momentarily pinned under the gaze; he’s struck with the unsettling feeling that Kita may be as good as observation as Suna. He frowns and looks away. “Tomorrow.” 

“Understood,” Kita says. Another duty of the Wisteria Houses—to help prepare demon slayers for their journey. “I’ll have your supplies ready.”

It’s the same as always occurs when he stays at a Wisteria House. The inhabitants of the houses rarely speak about themselves—if at all—and Suna has never particularly cared to know anything about them. Like the demon slayers themselves, those who run the Wisteria Houses are just another necessary cog to eradicate demons.

But there’s an itch at the back of Suna’s mind that feels a lot like the press of a hand placing a blanket over his cold shoulders.

Kita takes the seat adjacent to him. There is tea, suddenly; Suna hadn’t even noticed when Kita brought out the pot and cups.

“How often do demon slayers come to this house?” Suna asks, pulling his steaming cup to his face.

Kita hums in thought. It’s a purposeless sound, and Suna notes its existence in an absent corner of his mind. “Once every two years or so. And it’s only ever one or two at a time.”

It feels inappropriate to inquire about the demon slayers Kita previously housed, but Suna wants to. He wants to know what Kita thought about them, wants to know how long Kita has been master of this estate, wants to know what it might take to see a full smile across Kita’s face.

Suna’s _curious_. He wants to know more about Kita.

“I’d like to help with the supplies,” he says impulsively. He pushes his empty bowls away, and carefully keeps his eyes averted. It’s as surprising to hear himself say as it must be for Kita to hear, given the weighty blink he gives in response.

But then the expression is gone—like Kita picked up the information and neatly folded it into his plan for the day.

“Before breakfast, then,” he says, gathering the bowls.

Suna slumps against the table. Tomorrow, he has to go back to being a demon slayer and the responsibilities that entails; for now, he thinks he can indulge in being just Suna for a little bit longer.

“Hey,” he says, because if this is the one moment he will give himself, then he will stretch it as far as possible before it snaps, “You’ve never called me by name.”

Kita frowns at him.

“We never call the names of the corps members that come to the estate,” Kita says, as if Suna is a small child asking an exceedingly dumb question. 

Now that he’s thinking about it, Suna is not sure he’s _ever_ been referred to by name while staying at a Wisteria House. Maybe it’s part of some code he never knew existed.

But still, he asks, “So you don’t remember it?”

“Suna Rintarou.” Kita says his name solidly, with confidence. Suna’s chest constricts at the sound. “Of course I remember.”

_Of course he remembers_ , Suna finds himself thinking. _He’s Kita Shinsuke_.

  
  
  


The next morning, Suna attaches a report to Kei’s leg, and watches him fly off until he becomes a spot in the distance. Overnight, an idea hatched in his mind, one he doesn’t like and hopes is incorrect. And if he _isn’t_ incorrect, then he hopes Kei is swift and the backup team twice so. Already, sitting with his back against the open doorway to the back porch, Suna can smell ice on the wind.

A brief knock rouses him from his thoughts. When Suna looks up, Kita is sliding the bedroom door open. 

“Good mornin’,” Kita greets. The light filtering in from the open porch dapples him in gentle whites and yellows. He’s holding an unlit oil lamp, and wearing the same striped _haori_ over a different kimono. “We should move quickly to get this done before breakfast.”

“Morning.” Suna feels uneasy, though he doesn’t know why; his eyes are caught by the way Kita, lit as he is by the morning light, seems untouchable. “Where do you normally gather the supplies from?”

“The cellar,” Kita says, stepping into the room. It breaks whatever hold he had over Suna; he stands, grabbing his sword out of habit.

Kita passes him, evidently not feeling a need to explain anything else. Suna follows him as he steps off the porch and walks around to the side of the house. A door protrudes from the ground at a low angle, obscured by fallen foliage and the shade provided by the house. Kita brushes some branches out of the way, then pulls the door open with a hard tug. A sudden rush of wisteria cloys Suna’s nose; were he a demon, Suna suspects he might choke on the air alone.

Kita lights his lamp with flint from within his kimono sleeve, and steps through the doorway.

“Pull it closed behind you,” he says, the circle of orange light bobbing slightly as he walks. Suna follows, closing the cellar door with a satisfying _thud_. The ground slopes steadily downwards, packed earth worn and soft under his sandals. 

He inhales sharply when the earthen tunnel widens into a sprawling collection of shelves and barrels. Bundles of dried wisteria are hung from a cord strung across the ceiling, looping over the tops of shelves and protruding bundles of cloth. Suna can’t see the end of the room, but he suspects it must be as large as the house above. His eyes rake over jugs of dried food and lengths of rope coiled atop shelves, and wonders at how long it must have taken to stock this Wisteria House.

His respect for Kita grows at the thought.

Kita hangs the lamp on a raised hook by the entrance. It provides a dim half-circle of light over the shelves closest to them.

“You’ll need two rolls of the small bandages, one of the large, one of the jars labeled ‘burns’, two labeled ‘salve’, and two vials labeled ‘painkiller,’” Kita explains without preamble. He gives Suna a small satchel, nudging him towards the wall to his left, where rows of carefully labeled containers crowd two shelves. 

Kita disappears around one of the shelves in the opposite direction with the ease of someone who could do this in their sleep. He doesn’t even wait for Suna to confirm he understood.

Not that Suna needs it repeated; Kita’s excessive amount of medical supplies is embedded in his memory already. He approaches the shelves, muttering Kita’s instructions under his breath and finding that he doesn’t need them—by sight and scent alone, Suna recognizes the supplies he normally carries in his pack.

They fall into a silent pattern: Suna will give Kita a full bag, Kita will hand him a new one and another list, and then Suna wanders the maze of shelves until the satchel is filled with Kita’s requests.

Kita is nodding to himself as Suna returns with three thick rolls of fabric—nothing to do with the supplies for his journey, he’s certain, but everything to do with the inhabitants upstairs.

Suna lays the rolls on their side. He’d grabbed blindly, going by feel alone for warm fabrics, but in the dim light of Kita’s lamp, he finds it’s more of that maroon that Kita’s _haori_ is made of, with different prints outlined in whites and blacks.

“Thank you,” Kita says. The lantern light makes his eyes a bright, unnatural gold.

Suna directs his attention to the bags at Kita’s feet before he gets lost in thought.

“This is quite a lot, don’t you think?” he asks. “This isn’t a long mission.”

“This is the only Wisteria House in the area,” Kita explains. “The extras are to tend to the villagers.”

With that, Kita carefully unhooks the lantern before grabbing the satchels, then gestures for Suna to follow him out. Suna hefts the rolls of fabric and does just that, blinking rapidly when they come above ground and the sun shines directly in his eyes.

Suna pauses, closing his eyes briefly to get rid of the sting. When he opens them, it’s to find Kita standing silently on the porch. His head is cocked to the side slightly, a complicated expression on his face.

Keeping his steps quiet, Suna walks up to him and hears it: above the sound of winter winds and bird calls is laughter, coming from within the house. Kita’s expression smooths into—a softness, Suna decides. A nostalgia that passes over so quickly that Suna might have imagined it, when Kita steps into Suna’s room and places one of the satchels next to Suna’s futon.

“You don’t seem particularly perturbed by the crowding of the house,” Suna says, to distract himself from the sudden rushing blood in his ears, “Don’t you run this estate by yourself?”

“It’s only people,” Kita says, pulling one of the bundles from Suna’s hands and exiting into the hallway. He begins walking down the hall in the opposite direction, unhurried, so Suna quickly shuts the porch door and follows. 

“People to clothe and feed,” Suna says, adjusting his hold of the remaining bundles of cloth. Kita really does appear unconcerned with the fact that his solitary estate has increased so dramatically, so quickly. But the face he made on the porch wasn’t unconcerned. Suna doesn’t know what to call it.

Suna had assumed that Kita’s family had been killed in the recent attack, but what if they had died long ago, and until now it had just been Kita in this wide estate? Maybe Kita, like Suna, has become too used to the quiet.

Kita gives him an odd look as they follow the sharp turn of the hallway deeper into the estate. “That is the purpose of the Wisteria Houses,” he says, uncomprehending to the point of bluntness.

Unexpectedly, Suna feels a snicker rise to his throat.

It should be rude, but it isn’t. Kita should be more annoyed about the number of people in his house suddenly increasing, but he isn’t.

There is something both intensely contradictory and incredibly predictable in Kita’s behavior, but Suna hasn’t quite figured out the method to tell one from the other.

The come to a stop in front of a partially open door with white cloth strung across its frame. Suna glimpses a woman and young boy, separating a blood-stained pile of clothing to be cleaned with grim expressions. It smells overwhelmingly of ointments and herbs, and there are people laid out in futons from the sliver of the room he can see.

“Take this to the kitchens,” Kita says, drawing Suna’s attention away from the interior of the room. Suna obligingly loops the proffered satchel over his shoulder, while Kita continues, with a nod to the two remaining rolls of fabric, “And those to the largest room.”

Kita closes the door behind him silently, and for a few moments, Suna just stares at the shut door.

For reasons unknown, Suna is smiling.

  
  
  


With the afternoon sun overhead, Suna sets off for the river-side village, his pack and stomach full. He doesn’t pause for sleep—once darkness hits, he travels across the treetops, eyes alert to detect movement on the ground.

Kita had said a day and half through the night—Suna is certain that, with his breath-enhanced speed, he will make it by tomorrow morning. The night is still, and that only makes him move quicker; this whole area smells of demons, and Suna half-expects an ambush.

But daylight comes, and no demons show themselves. Suspicion blooms in Suna’s chest as he hops from the trees, pausing to stretch his muscles briefly. His breath is a thin wisp that gets lost with a bitter gust of wind. The sharp scent of cold is almost powerful enough to overcome the smell of decaying bodies that the wind carries, but not quite.

Suna closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the sun high above him.

He finds what he expects, when he arrives at the village entrance a short while later. Pulling a borrowed scarf over his nose, Suna walks the village the same way he did before, his eyes searching carefully for any movement in the darkness of the houses or among the bodies that scatter the ground.

He frowns the further through the town he goes, because his theory seems to have some weight. There’s a lack of bodies close to the road or in the forests, though of course there is blood. The actual carnage starts from the edges of the village and goes inwards, towards the center of the village.

And again, there are the remnants of a fire that burned itself out at the furthest edge of the village, closest to the mountain. Suna doesn’t understand this, but he isn’t stupid—had it been one village, he might have been able to say it was an attempt at fighting off the demons.

But the closer he got to the mountains, the more often he saw this. And Suna doesn’t believe in _chance_ ; this is deliberate. Suna sits across from the remains of the houses, fighting off his exhaustion with a few quick bites of the onigiri from his pack.

He doesn’t know when the demons learned to herd like this, or how many must be working together to do so, or if there is some demon’s blood magic at work. He _does_ know that there is nothing to be gained from staying here longer, though; he wipes his fingers on his pants and stands.

The ground is hard with cold, but Suna does his best to bury the remains, sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he digs and moves and covers. It’s a small village; before the sun has set, he’s done and stretching the stiffness out of his back.

The sunlight reflecting off of the river water is gold and red with sunset. He contemplates traveling through the night. But even this short rest leaves his vision swimming; his stay at the Wisteria House didn’t cure him of his exhaustion, and the rush of adrenaline that had been moving him fades as the sun does.

The evening smells like ice, but the air is clear of any snow. The only demon scent Suna can detect are the fading ones remaining in the village. He forcibly shuts down the part of his mind that is worrying about Kita and the others, whose only protection right now are the walls of the house and the scent of wisteria. It’s better for him to sleep if he wants to be alert for the return trip.

He finds oil and lights a lamp, sitting hunched under its glow. And he’s only somewhat surprised, when he settles down in an abandoned bathhouse that is the only place that doesn’t smell like blood, to find that someone had folded a thin but warm blanket in the bottom of his pack.

  
  
  


He’s half a day from the Wisteria House when Kei returns, a familiar caw sounding before he lands hard on Suna’s shoulder. He sticks his leg in Suna’s face, cawing, “A reply! A reply!” until Suna has to stop running and take the parchment from his leg.

“You’re a terror,” he tells the crow, who has hopped towards Suna’s pack with an impatient air. Suna crouches down in the middle of the road to unroll the parchment and rummage one-handed through his pack for some dried fruit for Kei.

The message is short: _we’ve dispatched Aran, Atsumu, and Osamu. If they have not arrived, your orders remain to defeat the demons._

“Oh, sure,” Suna says to Kei, who has finished his snack and sits in the crook of Suna’s neck, soaking up the body heat. “Easy enough.”

Suna doesn’t know how far out the others are, but given the remote location, even the twins will take a while to get here. A week, Suna decides with uncharacteristic optimism; it won't take them more than a week.

A sudden gust of wind bites at the exposed flesh of his face, and Kei caws unhappily. Suna hurriedly stuffs the message into the breast pocket of his uniform so that it doesn't fly away. 

When the wind settles, Suna realizes, with dread, that snow is fluttering downwards. The deceptively tiny flakes leave a thin white layer on the ground.

Suna scowls into his scarf. The others had better be superhuman enough to make it through the mountains once the snow obscures the roads. Because otherwise, Suna may very well be stuck here until spring.

And Suna doesn’t know if he can keep everyone safe that long.

  
  
  


It’s well and truly snowing by the time Suna returns to the Wisteria House, unhappily cold to his core and carrying a sadly squawking Kei between the folds of his scarf. Daylight is lingering as he arrives, but an oil lamp has been lit for him nonetheless. For a moment, he watches the flames flicker stubbornly against the wind.

He wonders if they have lit it close to sundown since the day he left. He wonders if Kita is the one doing the lighting. With a dismissive shake of his head, Suna pulls the lamp from its hook and knocks on the wide gate, calling, like he had the first day, “My name is Suna Rintarou, a member of the demon slayers corp.”

And, much like that first day, Kita opens the gate with an impassive expression, gives Suna a brief once-over, and says, “I’ll prepare a bath.”

The edge of exhaustion slips from Suna’s mouth, prompting a small smile. The snow falls gently, blending into the paleness of Kita’s hair as he opens the gate wide and lets Suna in.

“Oh,” Kita says, more to himself than to Suna. Then he looks up, taking Kei from Suna’s arms, and adds, “Welcome back.”

Suna’s whole life rearranges itself around those two words, but Kita just walks on, sliding open the door to the estate. “Yeah,” Suna hears himself say faintly, “I’m back.”

He’s surprised—though maybe he shouldn’t be—to find that everyone is still crowded into the estate when he walks through the house after a bath. It’s larger than he realized, and yet he cannot turn a corner without seeing one of the villagers. They greet him eagerly; Suna is distinctly uncomfortable with the attention. By the time he comes to the main room at the center of the house, he is feeling even more tired than when he slept in the river-side village.

He understands what Kita meant now, about how Suna would not be left alone if he ate with them. It takes three tries before Suna is successful at excusing himself from the main room and escapes to the kitchen. Kita is chopping vegetables in a measured manner, pausing only to nod at Suna as he slinks over to the tiny table by the window.

Sleep pulls at his eyelids the moment he sits, his muscles relaxing completely from the tautness he’s been carrying all day. The kitchen is warm, and quiet, and if Suna rests his head sideways on the table, he can watch the way Kita flits purposefully around the kitchen, measuring rice and carrying water and wiping down pots and pans with a single-minded focus that Suna finds endearing, if that were a thing that could be endearing.

A young girl, Midori, comes in and out, carrying dishes and dripping rags; every time she exits, the wisteria symbol on the back of her _haori_ flashes. Suna wonders if Kita has decided to take her in as a member of the Wisteria House.

The idea strikes him as unlike Kita, which then strikes him as odd because Suna’s not certain he knows what _like Kita_ even entails.

Other people pass through the kitchen and hallway; a woman who recently cleared from the infirmary, her belly round with pregnancy, carries a basket with thread and cut cloth past the doorway; a quiet man, close to Suna and Kita’s age, pauses in the doorway to inquire about tea with Kita; a young boy carrying a precarious pile of bowls to be cleaned.

Suna watches them, eyes alight. Watches the way they carry themselves with determination, with intention; the way grief still lingers around their eyes and in the pull of the corners of their mouths.

People act predictably, but Suna never tires of watching them.

He falls asleep to this; wakes this time to someone setting a bowl of food on the table, Kita settling down across from him.

Kita doesn’t seem surprised to see that Suna awake; he pushes a second bowl wordlessly towards him, which Suna accepts gratefully. They eat in silence, Suna watching Kita and Kita either not noticing or not caring—Suna isn’t sure which is preferable, yet.

When he’s swallowed the last of his rice, Suna asks, “Do you think they’ll stay through the winter?”

He’s seen the destruction, and knows that it’s exactly what the demons want. It would be possible for the villagers to repair things if it weren’t so cold and icy, if the destruction wasn’t so severe, if the days weren’t so short.

“They won’t return ‘til they know the demons are gone,” Kita says, staring plainly into Suna’s eyes. His eyes flick to the window, and he adds, as if inconsequential, “And the snow is already fallin’.”

Above all else, Suna is realizing that Kita is eerily practical. When the snow piles up in this mountainous area, it will seclude them from the roads and other villages. To the demons, it will likely pose no problem; but for humans, demon slayers among them, the path will be treacherous and slow.

Without any consultation, Kita has already deduced what Suna was worried about: once winter falls, they will have no help against the demons. And in the winter, the nights are only longer.

Kita’s silence is patient. Suna’s sword, always at his side even when inside, even in the daylight, even behind layers of wisteria, feels leaden under his steady gaze.

Suna is perfectly competent and crafty, but even he can’t give a firm answer. Wouldn’t lie, either. Instead, he says, “I haven’t failed in a mission yet.”

Kita inexplicably smiles. It’s small and contained, but it’s also the first real one Suna has seen on his face. “I see,” he says. “Then I will leave it to you.”

Wordlessly, Kita clears the table, his expression calm again. Suna watches for a moment longer, wondering if the smile was a trick of the light or a phantom brought on by his exhaustion.

But Kita’s face remains inscrutable. Eventually Suna stands and heads back to his room to review his notes before bed.

Suna has always approached his missions straightforwardly. In broad strokes, his duties involve two things: defeating demons, and protecting people. He’s never spared much thought to the specifics of the people involved.

That night, however, when Suna lands on his futon, it’s Kita’s small smile that reveals itself over and over again in the back of his mind. 

  
  
  


By the time the week is out, crisp snow has obscured the roads and treetops, muffling the sounds of nature that Suna is so accustomed to hearing. When he does his rounds in the evening, the world is the terrifying quiet that only occurs in the heart of winter.

The estate, however, is bustling with noise and movement and people, positively bursting at the seams. Suna helps shovel a path from the gate to the entryway, one day; another he spends on the roof, brushing heavy snow from the weak spots at Kita’s direction and then helping some of the villagers with repairs. Some evenings he spends perched in the wisteria tree while the youngest in the house play in the snow, occasionally tossing a snowball of his own in between keeping an eye out for the presence of demons. Others he spends chatting with the villagers after his patrols, the air stuffy with so many people crammed in one room.

And he watches Kita, endlessly and attentively; the way he cooks and cleans, how he administers aid and chastises thoughtlessness. He’s a little too clinical to be called kind, a little too abrupt to be called gentle; he’s the most entertaining of anyone in the house, if only because he does precisely what Suna expects him to, except when he doesn’t.

Bright sunlight grows across the floor in Suna’s room, the air fragrant with salt and fish. In the several groggy minutes before he’s fully awake, Suna can almost pretend this is a routine he’s used to: a room of his own, a warm futon, someone reliably preparing breakfast. A house with occupants. A home that isn’t always silent.

He opens his eyes reluctantly and rolls out of the futon. Suna allows himself one more moment of pretend before he dresses in his uniform, his sword at his hip.

There’s a _haori_ waiting for him by the doorway, of the maroon fabric Suna pulled out of the cellar what feels like ages ago. A rush of fondness overtakes him; it’s sudden and it’s heartbreaking, and Suna does not want to examine why. Instead, he pulls the _haori_ on and breathes in the lingering scent of wisteria.

As he suspected, Kita is in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Oomimi, the young man who can often be found drinking tea with Kita, watches a large pot of rice while Kita cooks an obscene number of fish over an open fire.

Suna stops walking at the sight of the still-dripping basket next to Kita.

“You...did you fish all of those this morning?” Suna asks. The sun has risen only an hour or so beforehand, but it must have taken longer than that to catch the fish and return to the house. For a single, blinding moment, Suna’s only thought is that Kita does not seem stupid enough to wander alone when demons are active. “While it was dark?”

“We carried wisteria with us,” Kita answers simply, gesturing to two satchels hanging by the doorway. All that does is make Suna realize that _both_ people in the kitchen could have died and he wouldn’t have been there to do anything about it.

Kita looks back briefly at Suna, adds, “If you sit, I can serve you tea.”

“You could have been attacked,” Suna says. He doesn’t sit; he’s suddenly jittery at the thought of Kita and Oomimi bleeding out by the river. Or worse, infected and halfway to demonhood themselves. He’ll have to start waking up earlier. He’ll have to patrol the doorways.

“The rice is ready,” Oomimi says. “I’ll wake the rest an’ get them to eat.”

“Thank you,” Kita says. He gives Suna a nod as she exits, walking with a slight limp.

Kita furrows his brows when he looks at Suna. “You’re not sittin’.”

“That was really dangerous,” Suna says, but it echoes emptily. He sits at his usual spot, feeling sullen.

Kita removes the last of the fish from the fire, replacing it with a teapot. “You came t’ scold me?” he asks, confused.

They are so wholly out of sync that Suna huffs out a laugh. Everything Suna has known about reading people and situations turns to ash in the face of Kita’s unbothered countenance. Where Suna could deduce from body language and facial ticks is only an endless pool of stillness. He hasn’t even found an unusual trait or odd habit he could leverage over Kita.

Perhaps he’s losing his touch.

Suna lets his head fall to the tabletop, eyes intent on Kita as he pulls cups onto a wooden tray. “Are there any other villages nearby? Past the river?” he asks.

“I’m certain there are,” Kita says, “but I don’t know of ‘em. Beyond the river is nothin’ but demons, or so Granny has always said.”

Suna nods, thinking. It’s rare, but every once in a while a place becomes so overrun with demons that even those who don’t know of the existence of demons will avoid it. They will call such a place _cursed_ , and leave it at that. This mountainside area has long been called such; it’s part of the reason Suna took the mission, misgivings aside.

Suna has never been able to leave a thing unbothered. After all, there is nothing _cursed_ about a demon’s machinations. Even demons have to plan. It’s only a matter of disruption, and Suna is quite good at that.

Kita carefully extinguishes the fire and brings the pot over with two cups. He sits across from Suna, his legs tucked under him. 

Suna lifts his head to sip at his tea, considering Kita’s form. “And what would you do if even this land were to fall to the demons?”

He doesn’t say that he thinks they already have. Probably Kita already knows this.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Kita says simply, pouring his own cup as he speaks. “I have a duty here. The Wisteria Houses won’t fall while the demon slayers corp still exists.”

It’s a sure statement, one that speaks less of Kita’s belief that _this_ house, with him as head, will never fall, but more of his sureness that someone, somewhere, will make use of its bones.

Suna blows the steam from his face, watching it swirl into the atmosphere. “You would stay?”

“I would.”

“Even if the rest of the villagers were lost?”

Kita doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

How stupid. But then, Suna is the one with the sword. He pulls the _haori_ tight around his shoulders. “It would be lonely.”

“Maybe,” Kita says, as if the thought had never occurred to him. Another new face. Suna adds it to the list. “But what would you have done if you came an’ found this house abandoned?”

Suna wonders if there’s a point in explaining how often everything in his path is abandoned. Instead he says, “You take your duty seriously, huh?”

“What else is there?” Kita asks. “To take seriously, that is.”

Suna laughs into his tea. He has no idea how to answer that. “You’re surprisingly stubborn.”

“Is that stubbornness?” Kita asks, with genuine curiosity. He frowns. “Even if you gave up being a slayer, wouldn’t you still draw your sword when faced with a demon?”

Suna doesn’t answer, but it seems he doesn’t have to; whatever expression he wears is enough for Kita to show that almost-smile.

Perhaps he, too, is stubborn.

  
  
  


Two weeks into winter, Suna is coming back from his evening patrol and hears the sound of a sword being swung. It’s a familiar, distinct noise that has Suna racing through the estate and out the back, his mind already at the worst case scenario.

He comes to an abrupt stop in the back of the estate to find Kita, in unfamiliar clothing, systematically working through a series of movements with a blade. It’s not the _nichirin_ blade that Suna and the other demon slayers carry—he can tell that from how it reflects light. And Kita’s movements are not that of a demon slayer, either; not propelled by the breathing technique that Suna uses, or any he recognizes. Everything about it is simple: sword and boy, steel and strength.

Kita’s swordsmanship is not flashy or impressive, but Suna finds himself attentively following Kita’s movements anyways. Unadorned, but effective. He must know he wouldn’t win. He does it anyways. This is another thing that makes him interesting, that makes him incomprehensible.

Suna rests his chin on his knees as he watches Kita practice, eyes alit. No, Kita Shinsuke could probably not cut off the head of a demon, but he could buy time until someone with that strength could.

“Did you ever plan on joining the corps?” Suna asks, on a different night, after Kita calls him down from his perch on the bare wisteria tree—Suna brushes aside the wondering of when Kita first noticed him, and rather suspects Kita must have always known he was there.

Kita’s nose is red with cold, a sight so alien that Suna stares openly before shrugging off the _hanten_ he’s borrowed and throwing it over Kita’s head. Kita blinks rapidly from under the fabric, and Suna smiles to himself as Kita slips his hands through the sleeves.

“Never,” he answers, pulling the _hanten_ closed. “Granny asked that I continue to operate the Wisteria House.”

“Probably better that way,” Suna says, without meaning to. But Kita doesn’t respond beyond a tilt of his head, a gesture that could mean anything. Probably he’s just thinking about it. Probably it isn’t anything that requires an answer, so Kita won’t waste his time on one.

“And you?” Kita asks. It’s snowing lightly again, the flakes crowning his hair and the line of his shoulders. His eyes are bright and golden as he looks at Suna. “Did you always plan on being a slayer?”

“No,” Suna answers shortly. He doesn’t mean for it to come out harshly, but it does, and he grimaces. But Kita is unperturbed. He nods slowly, in thought.

“I suppose not,” he agrees. “What would you have done, then?”

Suna’s surprised by the question, but more surprised by the emptiness that stretches in his brain as he thinks about it. “I don’t know anymore,” he says, feeling foolish. He grabs for that vague childhood memory and adds, “I wanted to travel.”

Kita lets out a huff of sound that Suna realizes, after a belated moment, was a laugh. “You would enjoy meeting all those new people.”

It’s so precisely correct that Suna goes red because he isn’t sure when or how Kita picked up on it. It’s not that Suna likes people, but he _appreciates_ them: their oddities and their interactions and their annoyances. He thinks that yes, he would have enjoyed to meet all those people instead of how he does meet them, in the throes of some great tragedy he is always too late to stop.

“Well,” Suna hedges, looking away and brushing the snowflakes from his uniform, “I still get to do that.”

Kita sounds amused when he answers, “Yes, I suppose you do.” And the tone makes Suna look over, scowling a little, and Kita’s tiny smile grows just a bit, just enough to make Suna stare.

Kita reaches up to brush the snow from Suna’s hair and Suna thinks, inanely, _Ah_ . Thinks, then forces himself to banish the thought, _I would like to stay like this_.

Kita pulls his hand away, and they walk inside, and Suna’s whole body is on fire with the realization that he’s never really found a place he wanted to call home before, and that he doesn’t really know what to do now that he has.

  
  
  


Kita and Oomimi are chopping vegetables, speaking in low voices over the sound of bubbling water and crackling fire. They are discussing how to make the small harvest last, how long the winter is expected to last, how long they expect the house to be so full. They do not talk about how long it will be before the demons are eradicated, or if they will return. 

The weak morning light slants across the kitchen table, where Suna has taken up unofficial residence when he is not running tasks for Kita or the villagers. He listens to their conversation with half an ear, having been instructed to repair a blanket accidentally torn by the younger members of the house. Suna isn’t particularly good at it, but when he tests it, the stitch holds.

“Message! Message!” comes a familiar, irritated call. Kei, seated on the windowsill, immediately puffs up as Atsumu’s crow, Tobio, comes into sight.

Suna stands, bodily moving Kei away from the window to open it wide and let Tobio fly inside. He does a half circle along the room—Suna zeroes in on Kita’s expression, but it doesn’t change beyond mild curiosity—before landing in front of Suna on the table.

The crows argue with each while Suna pulls the message from Tobio’s leg, unfurling to see three different sets of handwriting, the neatest one—Aran’s, he recognizes—clearly having taken over to finish the message. It’s an update of their progress, which amounts to _not much_. Suna’s heart sinks.

“Just how far away are they?” Suna asks Tobio. It’s been almost a month since he arrived, and the snow has remained consistent and deep. Suna doesn’t know how much more time they have before the demons finally decide to attack the Wisteria House. And the demons _have_ come, he smelled them on his patrols, but it seems the dried wisteria is enough to keep them outside the walls at night. 

For how much longer, though, he’s unsure. His fingers crinkle the edge of the parchment as he considers this.

“Mountain pass!” Tobio announces. He sticks out a leg, apparently assuming that Suna has somehow already formulated and written a response.

Suna scowls, says instead, “Just tell them to hurry. The other villages have been destroyed, and everyone is gathered in the Wisteria House.”

Tobio caws his understanding, then nudges at Suna with increasing urgency until Suna gives in and fetches some leftovers as a reward. Tobio takes off from Suna’s arm, outstretched in the window, and he watches in silence as the crow disappears over the tops of the trees.

Behind him, Oomimi and Kita are still talking in low voices. Behind that, the other inhabitants are beginning to wake up, doors sliding open and feet padding across hallways. Suna stands at the window a few moments longer, listening to the creaking of the house and the murmurs of its inhabitants. The wind has picked up again, disturbing the top layer of snow and sending it swirling into the air.

Suna’s inhale feels bittersweet. Only a few more days, Suna hazards. It seems longer than the past month has.

  
  
  


He wakes that night to the scent of fire. Suna slams open the screen door, stopping only to grab his sword and his sandals before he hurries onto the porch. He jumps onto the roof, and his adrenaline spikes. In the moonlight, a thick column of black rises from the forest.

The light flickering from the fire is a bright, luminous yellow. Suna knows at once that it is not the color of a natural fire. His heart races as the acrid smell reaches him. It could be a trap to bring people out, it could be a trap to keep people in; if he doesn’t kill the demon controlling it, it could spread to the estate, but if he leaves the estate, who’s to say it won’t be attacked first?

The wisteria tree is nothing but bark, but the scent still lingers. Will that alone be enough to keep the demons at bay?

Below him, the front door slides open, followed by the quick sound of bare feet across wood. Kita, oil lamp in hand, rushes across the cold ground. He, too, must have smelled smoke.

Suna jumps off the roof, his sandals hitting the dirt heavily. Kita doesn’t appear to have noticed; he’s already at the large gate, pushing one side open to investigate. The sight is somehow worse from the ground: from here, the smoke rises thick across the sky, blotting out the moon so that everything is lit with that unnatural yellow fire.

Suna clears his throat to let Kita know he’s there. Kita turns, the light from the oil lamp reflecting his eyes golden. There’s a flicker of fear there.

The wind blows soot into their faces. If the fire gets closer, the embers will almost certainly set the wooden gate ablaze.

“It’ll hit the village,” Kita says. His voice is tight. “It might’ve already with the wind—if it reaches the estate…”

Suna places a hand on Kita’s shoulder, as if to contain the panic he didn’t know Kita was capable of exuding. “That’s a demon’s fire,” he says carefully. “I just need to kill the demon. The fire won’t reach the estate.”

For several seconds, they stare at each other. It’s not something that Suna can guarantee and Kita must know that. But he still nods slowly, stepping backwards.

Suna lets his hand fall away and jolts when Kita catches it. For a moment, even Kita seems surprised by his actions; it’s wiped away by another gust of black wind and the deep scent of burning wood.

Kita lets go of Suna’s hand and takes several more steps backwards. “I’ll see you when you return,” Kita says. It sounds like a prayer.

Suna doesn’t answer; there isn’t a right one. He races down the road, cursing his failure to bring a scarf as soot lands on his tongue with every breath.

The closer he gets to the fire, the more pronounced the smell of demons becomes and the darker the air turns. The fire is brightest at the middle of the road, between the village and the estate. Embers fly past Suna as he advances, all thoughts gone except for his own words to Kita: _the fire won’t reach the estate._

“They _are_ coming,” a voice says from behind him. Suna doesn’t pause to think; he turns mid-step, unsheathing his sword in one fluid moment and advancing towards the voice in the next.

The advantage of surprise lasts only long enough for him to shallowly cut one demon across the side. There are two, and Suna falls into his stance again. The muscle memory of battle shuts off the part of his brain that is worried about the flames advancing, about the inhabitants of the estate, about the fact that Suna is a single human against a horde of demons. Suna thinks only in gridded pathways and patterns, in the openings that occur when a demon underestimates a human.

He throws his whole torso into the wide arc of the fourth form, cutting one demon’s neck and barely missing the second. The flames remain, which means the demon whose blood magic is behind it is still alive.

The wind blows the scent of a third demon towards him, farther along the path. That, Suna is certain, is the demon whose blood magic is behind the vivid yellow flames.

He makes short work of the second demon, hurrying along the road towards the scent of the third demon. There are others, too, but Suna’s instinct keeps him going towards the brightest part of the fire. His feet are soundless as he advances, jumping high and letting gravity enhance the strength of his swing as he falls forward.

But something must give him away, because the demon turns. Her face is bright in the light of the flames.

“Oh good,” she says, her voice the low rumble of an earthquake. He hand catches the blade mid-stroke, and Suna has to lift the blade and himself up to avoid her getting a hold of him. “Dinner came to _me_.”

Suna doesn’t waste his breath with a response. He’s already moving, careful to not step too far into the trees. The smoke is thick here, making his breaths harder to pull in.

The twist and turn as they fight, Suna hurtling himself at the demon with everything in him. Her claws graze him more than once. He’s caught off-guard when she disappears into her flames, only to reappear behind him in a blazing burst of fire. He dodges, but overshoots the spin; his ankle twists painfully and he just barely catches himself before he falls to the ground.

Suna is quickly being surrounded by the flames, and the realization runs a chill down his spine. He needs to end this now. It’s already been too long; his arms are starting to ache, and his vision beginning to waver as the air becomes thinner and the soot becomes thicker in his lungs.

Carefully, he lets his breathing even out, the soft way it does when he sleeps. Then he channels the rest of his energy into his legs and back muscles, and leaps at the demon.

The fire hisses itself out as the demon goes down hard, her head splitting in a manner that would spell death for a human. But it’s still no good—almost immediately her head begins to stitch itself together. Suna missed the neck.

The demon begins to stand, fast despite her unsteadiness. Suna lowers into his stance again, dizzy as oxygen rushes back into the air and into his chest. Just the neck, he reminds himself; just sever the head and this will be over. He doesn’t know if he can do it. He knows he must.

A yellow spark starts at the charred roots at his side, and he jumps to the side, narrowly avoiding going up in flames. He notices too late that it’s what the demon wants—he’s hit with fire from the other side, a hiss of pain escaping his lips. His vision swims, but he keeps his eyes and blade trained on the demon.

More crosses of claws and steel, more slashes too shallow or too low. The sky thins into paleness above them, moonlight giving way to sunlight—

_Sunlight_ , Suna registers dimly, in the middle of a downstroke. Brilliant white sunlight creeps across the sky. A _nichirin_ blade, wisteria, and sunlight: the only things known to harm demons.

The demon realizes it at the same moment, her skin beginning to sizzle as the light reaches them. She immediately turns and takes off at a sprint, towards the mountain with their dense trees.

Suna takes two steps after her before his ankle collapses underneath him. He slams the hilt of his sword into the dirt, a cut-off sound of frustration rising and dying in his throat. He watches her run, the adrenaline vanishing quickly and replaced immediately with a drowning despair. 

The demon’s echoing laughter reverberates in the morning air. Suna grips his sword so strongly that the minute muscles in his hand twitch.

His breathing is ragged and shallow, sweat cooling quickly now that he’s no longer moving. His whole body feels leaden, except for a line of pain along his ankle and at his side. The wisp of his breath curls upwards; the scent of smoke is overwhelming.

Suna isn’t sure how long he remains among the charred trees and billowing smoke, but it’s Kei’s crowing that rouses him from his stupor.

His crow sits above him with his head cocked to one side. When he sees that Suna is looking at him, Kei takes off in the direction of the Wisteria House.

“Rest,” he calls, “Rest!”

Wearily, Suna follows, sheathing his sword as he goes. The top layer of snow along the road is black with soot and sludge from the battle. Suna nearly falls several times on his way, but he doesn’t dare stop. Not until he gets to the house. Not until he can be sure that nothing got to the estate while Suna was fighting the fire demon.

Kita is waiting at the gate. He has shoes on, this time. The gate is whole and except for spots of black along its front, undamaged. Relief relaxes the tense line of Suna’s shoulder.

As Suna gets closer, he sees that Kita’s nose and cheeks are bright red with cold. The kind of red that comes from waiting outside, unmoving. Suna wants to know for how long. He _needs_ to know for how long.

“The demon got away,” he says instead of asking. It’s an admittance of failure, but if Suna’s expecting a scolding, he doesn’t get one: Kita merely opens the gate wider, eyes dancing along Suna’s body as if taking inventory.

Suna trips over himself. Kita steps forward to catch Suna as he wobbles on his injured foot. His grip is tight, but his voice is calm when he answers, “Welcome back.”

Suna closes his eyes and pretends. Pretends that he can lean into Kita like this whenever he wants, that he will hear this greeting every day in the future. He inhales the scent of wisteria and rice, and wants to call it home.

Suna exhales and pulls himself out of Kita’s grip. “Could you help me bandage my ankle?”

“Of course,” Kita answers softly. Kita presses a hand between Suna’s shoulder blades, a gentle but firm push towards the house.

This gentleness feels undeserved, but still Suna manages a small and pathetic, “Thank you.”

  
  
  


If Suna had his way, he would have left to do reconnaissance on the damage immediately after his foot was bandaged. Kita, and Suna’s own exhaustion, had other ideas for him. Suna is bodily lead to his room with strict orders not to leave. He couldn’t even think of an argument; as soon as Suna landed on his futon, he fell deep asleep.

It’s dark out when he wakes. Suna sits in contemplative silence before he gets up to run a bath. It takes two washes before Suna can get all the soot off his body.

For the next few days Kita remains within constant reach, with food or pain salve or a brief touch to Suna’s arm.

_It’s not that bad_ , Suna had insisted repeatedly. But Kita doesn’t ascribe to such technicalities. Suna is either okay, or not; he is either taking care of himself, or not. Kita’s care is a ferocious and engulfing thing; Suna is astounded by the breadth of it.

But it really _isn’t_ that bad; he’s able to hold weight on his foot two days later. The burn at his side is mostly superficial, and no longer swollen by the fourth day. By the fifth, Suna is sitting on the porch after training, his muscles aching. He’s not fully recovered, but it will have to do.

The demons will be back. He can feel it in his bones.

“Good evenin’,” Kita says from behind him. He crosses the porch to sit cross-legged next to Suna.

“You were watching?” Suna asks, strangely embarrased.

Kita hums. “You’re impressive.”

Suna doesn’t respond beyond flattening onto his back, letting the cold air cool his overheated body. He has to fight to keep his face even as the words echo in his head. “Did you need something?” he asks once his breathing has evened to a normal speed.

“Company, I suppose,” Kita says after a thoughtful moment. “And to tell you that we need to replenish our stock of firewood.”

Suna’s heartbeat—kicked into a frenzy at Kita’s initial response—slows to a less frantic pace. He smiles; he knew this would be coming after he accompanied Kita to the cellar yesterday. “Whatever you say, young master Kita.”

A laugh startles into the wind, Kita’s amusement plain on his face. Suna nearly sits up with the shock of it. _This is something you need to remember_ , he thinks. Watching Kita laugh, Suna momentarily forgets what the darkness of the night can bring forth.

“Young master?” Kita repeats, with a smile that lingers at the edge of his mouth, “I’m no one so important as that, demon-slayer-sama.”

Suna snickers turn into a full-bellied laugh. It’s a simple joy brought on by the absurdness of the title in the seriousness of the day, of the week, month, winter. 

Suna stares upwards as his laughter dies away. From here, he can see a bit of the star studded sky, wispy clouds drifting along and blocking out the moon. It’s melancholy, suddenly.

“We’ll have to go much farther out to find good wood,” Suna says, keeping his gaze firmly on the night sky. This late, everyone is in the estate, safe behind the protection of the wisteria tree. After the other night, this safety has felt precarious, their undoing a slow planning from the moment the cold began to blow into the mountains.

“I know,” Kita says. When Suna chances a look in his direction, its to find Kita staring up at the moon and wispy clouds. “That’s why you must hurry back.”

The damage from the fire spread far out, the forest reduced to useless cinder and ash along the roadside. Soot sinks into the snow as they walk forward, making grey slush that dampens Suna’s _tabi_ and _kyahan_.

By the time Suna, Oomimi, and Akagi reach trees viable for firewood, the sun is low on the horizon. Suna cusses as he gathers logs into a bundle.

“Nothin’ to worry about,” says Akagi. His fingers are red with cold, but he ties the branches up with twine as if unbothered by it. “You’ve protected us all this time, haven’t ya?”

“And no one is willin’ to leave at night if you’re not there,” Oomimi adds, his axe thwacking into the final tree rhythmically. 

Suna, throwing the finished bundles into the cart, only scowls. Him being there doesn’t assure anything. “Once you finish that one, we’re leaving.”

“Yes sir,” they chorus. But they move quickly after that, because Suna was right—it’s dark by the time they’re on the main road, and Suna’s heart thumps loudly in his chest. He walks at the front with a hand on his sword and his eyes scanning carefully for movement.

Usually, at this point, he can sense demons lurking. This deep in winter, with the surrounding villages slaughtered, it only makes sense that Suna can smell them hovering as soon as night falls.

But he doesn’t smell the rancid tang of demons. He keeps his pace quick, eyes darting along the shadows cast by weak moonlight. The lack of demons makes him anxious, and he picks up the pace. It’ll be several hours still until they’ve reached the estate. 

It will be fine, Suna tells himself as he quickens his pace further, the wheels of the cart creaking with the increased speed. They’ll just hurry forward through the night. They’ll get to the estate and find a lit oil lamp waiting for them. Kita will somehow still be awake, and run water for them to bathe with.

It will be fine.

But the smell that’s reaching his nose sinks dread low in his gut. The wind, when it blows itself around him, smells like smoke and wisteria.

The wheels slow to a stop. Behind him, Oomimi and Akagi are asking what’s wrong, but all Suna can focus on is how his heart is a stuttering captive in his chest.

“The wisteria tree is burning,” Suna says, voice urgent and low. “We have to hurry.”

He breaks into a run. The two villagers mimic him, but against the snow and Suna’s breathing-enhanced speed, they cannot keep up. A headache pulses at his temple.

Suna grits his teeth and mentally curses the snow for slowing them so. Curses the winter, for allowing daylight to die so quickly.

He curses himself, too, for being lulled into a sense of peace he has known since childhood is easily breakable.

Suna slows his pace to allow them to catch up.

“Don’t worry about us!” Akagi calls.

Suna hesitates for a moment, but Akagi interrupts it with an impatient flap of his hand.

“Go! We’ll be right behind you.”

And after another moment’s thought, Suna reaches into his pack—the one Kita makes every time Suna leaves, always stocked as if Suna will be drawn away for several nights. At the bottom of the bag, he feels it—a satchel, with dried buds poking at his fingers.

He pulls out the wisteria with a huff. Suna might be figuring out what _like Kita_ means.

Shouldering the pack, Suna tosses it in the direction of the two men. “Keep this on you as you run. And stay together!”

Oomimi catches it with a nod, while Akagi makes a shooing motion.

“We want a home to return to, you know,” Oomimi calls, as the same time Akagi says, “Hurry!”

“I know,” Suna agrees. He wants it so desperately it hurts.

  
  
  


The scent is stronger as he reaches the road, and by the time Suna has made it through the remains of the forest, he understands why.

If not for the years of training he’s had, Suna would have been stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead of him, the wooden gate blazes a bright, destructive yellow, and over the top of the crumbling structure, the wisteria tree is lit like a wick, its branches crackling. The smoke cascading upwards is a deep black, casting the entire area into a speckled darkness. The smell is overwhelming and nauseating. Suna’s heart slams loudly in his chest as he notes how the gate has been ripped open, how he can hear screaming, how stupid, how _stupid_ he was to think he could save anyone by himself.

Suna feels like vomiting, but he launches himself through the gate at breakneck speed, a deathgrip on the hilt of his sword.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s seeing when he passes the gate. There are demons, because of course there are—but they’re prowling around the house, instead of barging inside.

Suna takes down two with a single breath before he’s close enough to understand why—criss-crossing the entrance and circling the house are the lengths of dried wisteria he saw in the cellar. Just behind the entrance, white as a sheet and trembling in her overlarge _haori_ , was Midori. In her hands was another bundle of dried wisteria, and behind her, the shadows of the other inhabitants of the house.

“Suna-san!” she calls, her voice on the verge of tears.

“Stay there!” Suna calls, his voice harsh with command. Less than a dozen, he thinks with the strangely detached voice that always comes when he’s analyzing a battle. He smells blood, too, but disregards it—what’s done is done, and bodies can be buried later.

The demons have all turned their attention to him, clearly not wasting any more thought on how to get past the wisteria barrier. Suna spares a brief, fleeting thought to the question of where the demon whose magic is burning the tree has gone before it vanishes in the face of the battle.

There is no space for a misstep—at every angle is a demon, wanting his flesh, and only Suna or the dawn can stop them from finding a way to get to the people huddled behind the wisteria. One, then two, heads fall; systemically, Suna channels his breathing. Water is strong because it’s adaptable, and Suna embodies it to the fullest degree as he whirls between the demons, his blade seeking out the vulnerability of a demon’s neck.

But two break away, so fast that they blur. Out of the corner of his eye, he understands: Oomimi and Akagi have returned, and the demons noticed before Suna.

He changes direction mid-step, switching to the second form of breathing to wheel himself between the men and the demons. The hastiness costs him—a claw rakes across his torso in the second it takes for Suna to finish his swing, the pain sharp and deep.

Suna bites back a pained groan and readjusts, taking down two heads with his next swing. They fall with a thunk, and Suna looks up to find the path to the estate now blessedly clear, only limp bundles of clothing any indication that demons were there at all.

One of the men speaks urgently, a hand on Suna’s shoulder, but Suna shrugs it off. The tree is still burning. At least one demon is still around, and Suna doesn’t want anyone around when it inevitably comes.

“Go in,” Suna manages to bark out, his side burning. “Get under the wisteria with the others.”

“You’re hurt—”

“Now!” Suna snaps. He is not usually this sharp, but he is also not usually gripped with such an intimate fear of the consequences of his failure. “I can still smell them—more are nearby.”

But he can do this: he can protect this house, and these people. He’s a demon slayer. It’s what he does.

“Suna-san,” Midori cries, breaking away from the cluster of people and tripping over herself as she bounds towards Suna. She ducks under the line of dried wisteria before Suna can tell her not to, and crashes into him, her fingers shaking as she grabs the fabric of his uniform and wails, “Kita-san! He told us to put up the wisteria once the gate caught fire, but we haven’t seen him since!”

Ice settles into Suna’s lungs. 

She continues, crying so hard that Suna almost doesn’t understand her. “He didn’t take the rest—I _told_ him to but-but he l-left…”

“Is this all around the estate? The windows?” Suna’s mind spins, trying to take in too much at one time—the lingering scent of demons and blood and smoke, his eyes raking over the visible portions of the estate to see what holes exist, one hand pressed against the wound on his side and the other on Midori’s shoulder as it shakes.

“Yes,” she says in a tremble, the wisteria crushed by her hands. “Around the whole house and every window.”

_The cellar_. Suna knows it intuitively. Because Kita, above all else, is practical—all the wisteria in the world wouldn’t matter if they had no food, no medicine.

“I know where he is,” he says, guiding her to the doorway and wincing as the movement irritates his wounds. Without the full extension of his torso, his attacks will be less powerful, and Suna can’t afford that loss now.

But he runs anyways, because more disabling than the loss of power behind his swing is the thought of Kita, maimed and eaten because Suna was too slow to stop it.

Suna rounds the corner, and soon enough he sees it—Kita and his blade against two demons. The dried wisteria falls short of the entrance to the cellar. But Kita remains rooted to that area. He’s expressionless, unflappable, as he steadily parries and blocks.

But he’s slow. Against demons, Kita is barely keeping up. Suna inhales, letting his strength surge through his legs. He exhales, and shoots forwards, his blade cutting clean through the first demons’ neck.

Suna lands with his back to Kita’s back, his sword facing the remaining demon.

Suna readjusts his stance as the headless demon begins to disintegrate. “I’m scolding you when we’re in less danger, okay?”

“Of course,” Kita says. This close, Suna can hear the labored rise and fall of Kita’s chest, but he doesn’t dare spare a glance to appraise Kita’s person. He’s alive. That is more than enough to work with.

The demon flames are still roaring, but the demon in front of him isn’t the one Suna battled with in the forest. Suna makes short work of it, but he’s getting sloppy; he takes a hit to his chest, almost certainly cracking a rib, before he managed to cleave his sword through the demon’s neck.

The smoke makes it impossible to pinpoint where the demon behind the flames might be. Suna nudges Kita towards the estate, his eyes scanning the area carefully.

“Get under the wisteria. You did well, but I’ve—” Suna’s words are cut off as a cough rakes his chest, an unexpected mouthful of blood escaping his lips. He brings a hand to his mouth quickly, but he’s sure that Kita noticed.

“Suna?” Kita asks. Suna has never heard alarm so evident in Kita’s voice before. That scares him more than the wound.

“I’m fine,” Suna manages. Kita’s hand is on his back, warm and firm, and when Suna lifts his head, its to find Kita staring at his bloodied uniform with wide eyes.

“You need t’ get inside,” Kita says, the hand on Suna’s back suddenly urgent.

Suna shakes his head, says, “I’ll be fine. You need to get behind the wisteria—if I don’t kill the—”

“You’re _injured_ ,” Kita says, like he thinks Suna doesn’t understand this, as if maybe Suna has never been injured in this line of work and doesn’t realize what pain feels like. Suna knows very well; at the moment, the knowledge that Kita is wasting time fretting over him while a demon could strike at any moment paints a far more painful future than him fighting through his wounds until dawn comes.

He doesn’t say this. Instead, Suna elbows Kita roughly and says, “And you’re exhausted. You’re not even a demon slayer.”

“You’re bleedin’ too much—”

“This is my job!” Suna snarls. From some unseen end, the dried wisteria has been lit on fire, an endless string that will surely end with the house being lit up as well. “Everyone will die if I don’t kill the demon behind those flames!”

Suna has never really seen Kita stubborn, but that must be what’s behind the glint of his eyes. His hand tightens in the fabric of Suna’s uniform. “You’ll die.”

It’s not a question; they both know the answer, only Suna has been living with it for much, much longer.

“If you understand,” Suna says after a beat of silence, wiping the blood from his mouth, “then get ins—”

A figure obscures the moon in the split second between Suna’s words. Instinctively, he dives, awkwardly taking Kita down with one arm to keep his sword arm free. The claws rake at his back as they go down, but only catch the fabric of Suna’s uniform.

Suna rolls, up in half a crouch as pain scatters across his chest. Keeping his breathing shallow, he brings his sword up as he faces the demon. Her eyes are blazing yellow, the exact shade as the fire now crackling along the house. There’s blood on her mouth, but isn’t there always? For once, Suna wants to be _just in time_ and not _too late_. 

His body arches through the air, his sword level with the demon’s neck. But the wounds are taking a toll; Suna only manages a shallow slash when the demon leaps backwards, out of reach.

Screams from inside the house reach his ears. The flames must have caught the house, and the demon must realize it, too, because she lets out a laugh. She’s going to eat them the moment they come out of the house, Suna realizes.

He coughs, and more blood escapes his mouth. He readjusts his stance. He has to do this now.

But she can sense his urgency, and when Suna leaps at her, breathing through the third form, she dodges and redirects with a leap over him—right at Kita, who is still mutely standing by the cellar doors.

Suna cuts off her arm before it reaches Kita, his fury almost eclipsing the pain he’s in. She makes an incomprehensible noise as she leaps backwards again, her arm bulbous and veiny as it regrows.

Suna’s vision sways, but he remains upright. His muscles are tense, his breathing coming quick and irregular with anger.

“Stay behind me,” he orders through his labored breathing. Kita doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to; Suna knows his voice is sharp enough to demand compliance.

A crow, familiar and for once welcome, calls overhead. It’s followed by a familiar crack of thunder that accompanies Atsumu’s attacks. The demon jumps at the sound, then bounds onto the roof in one leap.

Suna coughs up another mouthful of blood, his body shaking with the effort of standing. He wipes at his mouth as he steps forward, trying to catch a glimpse of where the demon ran off to. Kita catches him by the elbow when he sways.

“They’re here,” Suna manages to say, the relief ringing clear in his voice. “I should—”

He coughs again, wincing at the pang of pain it causes. 

Kita’s grip tightens. “No. Whatever you’re thinkin’, no.”

Suna laughs heavily. The motion makes his ribs hurt and his head throb. The fire is still blazing, and Kita is still outside of the safety of the dried wisteria. But is it any safer inside, when the flames have already claimed the east side of the estate?

Suna tries to stay standing. He can hear the others, but it’s faint, like his ear are being stuffed with wool. The fire flickers in front of his eyes, weaker and hazier. “This is my _job_ ,” he says again, a numb whisper.

Kita’s grip tightens to the point of pain. He doesn’t budge when Suna tries to pull away, which means either Suna’s a lot weaker than he thought or Kita’s a lot stronger than he imagined.

“Your job is to live, and keep living,” Kita says sharply.

Suna wants to retort; he tries to open his mouth, but finds that he doesn’t have the coordination to do so. He falls sideways into Kita, and then doesn’t think at all.

  
  
  


The first thing Suna notices upon waking is the strong, spicy scent of the pain salve favored by the corps. The scent curls into his nostrils, overpowering and sharp.

The second thing he notices is that he is still alive. So rarely does that feel like a relief, but as he blinks awake, the noise filtering in from the hallway make it so: the bustle of people walking, a laugh that sounds suspiciously like Aran’s, the soft sound of a door sliding open.

When Suna lifts his head, Kita is sliding the door shut behind him. Only Kita’s rapid blinking betrays his surprise at seeing Suna staring back at him.

“Mornin’,” Suna manages, his throat dry and voice cracked.

Kita mouth falls open a little. It closes just as silently. He places the basket under his arm on the floor and says, “I’ll bring water.”

The door slides shut behind him just as quietly, and Suna feels an unexpected laugh rise into his throat. He thinks, if he had the breath to let it out, it would sound a lot like how love feels.

The pain comes shortly after, a constellation along one side of his body and across his chest. Pressing his eyes together, Suna concentrates hard on his breathing.

He forgot how much being alive hurts.

A careful hand slides under his head. Kita is sitting next to him, holding a shallow bowl of water and worrying his lower lip.

“Take small sips,” he says, helping Suna sit up enough to drink. Suna leans his weight into Kita’s chest, and Kita lets him, his hand running a rhythmic line down Suna’s arm and up again.

When he finishes, Kita pulls another bowl forward, this one still steaming. “Broth only,” he says at Suna’s expression, then silently helps Suna drink most of that as well.

Kita puts the bowl on the floor with a soft clink, and pulls away so that he’s facing Suna properly. The candles flicker gently in the silence.

Kita says, “I thought you were going to die.”

His voice doesn’t shake, and he doesn’t appear to have anything else to say. Kita’s back remains impossibly upright, but his hands are fisted so tightly in the fabric of his kimono they have begun to tremble. For once, Suna thinks he may have found a side to Kita that he does not want to see.

“I haven’t,” Suna offers.

“You haven’t,” Kita agrees, and the tension running through his hands relaxes when Suna reaches out his own. Kita’s hands are warm. Suna wants to hold onto them forever.

  
  
  


His first visitors aside from Kita are his fellow demon slayers, uncharacteristically somber as they kneel at his side.

“This isn’t a deathbed visit, you know,” Suna chides. He was only recently allowed visitors; he _is_ healing, but there are fractures to his ribs that will have him out of commission for a few weeks still.

“We can leave, then,” Osamu says flatly, “since you’re clearly fine.”

“If you had died, which of us would have received your stuff?” Atsumu asks academically.

“You think I’d name _either_ of you in my will?” Suna asks with disgust.

“It feels like bad luck to be joking about this,” Aran says, his voice just enough on the side of worry that Suna feels a flash of guilt. The twins must feel it, too, for they both look away with identical looks of discomfort.

But Aran’s mouth curves into a small, sad smile, and he adds, “I’m sorry we couldn’t be here sooner.”

Inexplicable tears burn at the corner of Suna’s eyes. So many things did not survive, Suna knows; Kita told him yesterday, while dressing his wounds. The east side of the estate, burnt and crumbling; the gate, a charred ring around the estate; the wisteria tree, burnt down to its roots.

But through the winter, Suna had kept them safe. He’d built a home in these hallways, in the creaking frames and the towering forest, with the villagers and the lone master of the house. He’d built a home, but once his wounds healed, his crow would give him a new destination and Suna would have no choice but to leave.

“You did well,” Atsumu says suddenly. He’s still looking at the far wall in discomfort, but his voice is firm. “You saved them.”

Suna stares at the ceiling as the tears slide down his cheeks. “I suppose I did,” he says, the stress finally consuming him.

He’s laughing moments later, as the others panic and fret over him. He laughs through the sting in his chest, through the throbbing of his heart as it counts down to the moment this small warmth will vanish with the wind and a crow’s call.

  
  
  


Kita won’t let anyone else tend to Suna. Suna is quietly thrilled by this announcement, shared by Midori as she brings him a bowl of miso soup for breakfast.

“Was anyone else injured?” he asks. Maybe he’s the only one who is, and that’s why Kita doesn’t want to bother anyone else with it.

“Yeah,” she answers sadly. Suna has to work to not let his inappropriate glee show through. So Kita _is_ treating him differently. “But Aran-san helped us treat the most serious cases. They’re all recoverin’ well.”

Suna smiles. “Aran is good like that. I imagine the twins are only helpful in polishing off the bowls.”

Midori huffs, stirring the miso vigorously before giving Suna another spoonful. His arms are still weak from the battle, and the spoon wobbles too much when he tries to feed himself. “They both eat _so much_. Kita-san had to reprimand them!”

Suna nearly chokes on his soup with laughter. He wishes he’d been conscious for that. Sleepily, he listens to her complain, until the next time he opens his eyes, it’s to find Kita in the room instead.

“Good evening,” Suna says, and is happy that his voice doesn’t rasp the way it has for the past few days.

Kita spares him a glance over his shoulder. The smell of herbs is strong, and when Suna pushes himself up, he sees a bowl and bandages piled next to Kita.

“Good evening,” Kita repeats. He smiles more now, tiny ones that would get lost in the bustle of the day if Suna weren’t the one looking for them. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Mostly fine,” Suna answers. Being able to sit up is already a huge improvement.

Kita busies himself with checking Suna’s temperature and the fullness of movement in his arm before placing a cool, wet cloth against Suna’s forehead. It smells faintly like the cellar, and Suna closes his eyes at the thought. 

“Midori seems put off by the others,” Suna offers, as Kita gets to undoing the bandages across his chest.

“Is that so?” Kita asks, evidently surprised. He hasn’t shown any signs that the other demon slayers have been difficult, but maybe Suna shouldn’t be surprised by that.

“You haven’t noticed?” Suna asks. The bottom layer of bandages come away rusted red, but the ones wrapped tightly around his abdomen reveal only the stickiness of healing.

Kita dips another cloth into the bowl, wringing out the excessive liquid before carefully cleaning Suna’s wounds. “No. Is it obvious?” he asks curiously.

Suna laughs, and just barely manages to suppress the wince that comes from his fractured rib expanding too much. Kita pinches his uninjured side, lightly, as if he knew.

“It is,” Suna answers, because even confined to this room, he’s heard enough gossip from his visitors to determine that it must be. “They’re very different from what they’re used to.”

“I like them,” Kita says absently. He repeats the motion—dip, wring, clean—and swipes the cloth once more across the wounds on Suna’s abdomen and chest before unravelling a length of bandages. “All the demon slayers I’ve met have been interesting.” Kita’s eyes flick upwards. He says, “But your stay has been the most enjoyable.”

Suna instinctively brings his hands up to cover the red that’s surely spread across his face. If Kita notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Kita quietly slides open the door leading to the back porch. Water hits the ground with a splash. The air that blows into the room is warmer than the past week, rich with the scent of greenery and dirt. Outside, spring is slowly waking.

When Suna pulls his hands away from his face, Kita is sitting next to him again. His ritual done, Kita sits with his legs underneath him. He’s smiling, eyes softer than Suna’s ever seen them. Suna would abandon everything to see this side of Kita for the rest of his life.

Suna wants to say that it was for him, too. Wants to say that Kita has him, still; will probably have Suna forever, if given the chance. Instead Suna inclines his head, and says, with full sincerity, “Thank you. For everything.”

Kita’s face softens in the lamplight. “You're welcome.”

  
  
  


In two weeks time, Suna has recovered full movement in his arm and upper body, the deep wound across his flesh reduced to a fresh scar. When Kita allows him to finally leave the room, it’s to find a party in his honor.

Kei delivers his next assignment the following afternoon.

Kita, sitting across from Suna in the kitchen, blinks rapidly. It’s clear that he knows what it is before Suna even opens it.

For one moment, Suna is overcome with a mutinous feeling. Then he exhales, and meets Kita’s gaze.

“I will prepare your uniform,” Kita says. Before Suna can blink, Kita is already out of the kitchen, his tea forgotten on the table.

  
  
  


The others receive assignments as well, and in short order the Wisteria House empties of demon slayers. It does not escape Suna’s notice that he is stalling his own departure by seeing to all the requests of the villagers. He helps pack bags and cut firewood, clears out sections of the cellar and hangs out laundry to dry, and by the time he realizes that he has nothing else to do, it’s already nightfall.

On his shoulder, Kei sullenly repeats his orders into Suna’s ears: “North-north-west! North-north-west!”

“I _know_ ,” Suna snaps, rubbing at his ear. Resigned, he finds himself at the door he’s avoided since this morning: Kita’s door. The only one he’s avoided more is the room that has become his own.

Kita frowns when he answers Suna’s knock. “You haven’t changed.”

Suna had forgotten about his uniform completely. “I will. Um, did—did you need help with anything?”

It’s his last-ditch effort to reclaim some time here, though Suna knows the answer even before Kita responds.

“No.” Kita steps into the hallway and nods his head for Suna to lead the way to his room.

Someone hung an oil lamp at the end of the hall, and the dim orange glow makes the silent walk feel sacred.

“Hey,” Suna starts, an urge to capture Kita’s attention for as long as possible rising suddenly and overwhlemingly, “What will you do once the villagers have moved back into the village?”

_Will you leave?_ Suna doesn’t ask, but the question hangs in the air. He doesn’t have a right to ask—he’s the one who is always leaving one place for another, who lost his roots in childhood and never considered placing new ones.

But he’s thinking this soil looks good, and the river seems rich, and Kita… well. And Kita.

They’re walking side by side now, footsteps quiet and even. “I have a duty here. My family has run this Wisteria House for generations. So long as the demon slayers corps exists, so too will this house.”

It’s an echo of a conversation from a lifetime ago.

“What if there are no more demons in the area? No reason for demon slayers to be called here?”

“Well,” Kita starts, with an amused quirk of his lip, “One never really knows what will be brought in with the wind.”

Suna’s door is in front of them, but Suna pauses, puzzling out Kita’s meaning. “Such as?”

Kita smiles at the floor, a small and wistful one. He opens the door to Suna’s room and steps inside. After a wordless moment, Suna follows him.

There, on top of his uniform, sits a familiar maroon striped _haori_. Suna picks it up, then looks over at Kita.

Kita isn’t looking at him. He’s walking across the room, stopping to slide open the door to the back porch. He says, “You have to return it before next spring.”

“You…” Suna pulls the _haori_ against his chest. His heart is the loudest thing in the room. “Why give this to me?”

“If you died out there, I would never know,” Kita says. He keeps his back to Suna. “But if I never got that back, then I would know.”

For a moment—brief, startling—Suna thinks that if he asked Kita to travel with him, Kita would agree.

But he doesn’t ask, because Kita wouldn’t. Kita is disciplined in everything, even in this emotion that threatens them both with flightiness. And it would be cruel to ask—above all, Suna is still a demon slayer. When he is summoned, he leaves. He can’t ask the same life of another person.

“I’ll be back,” Suna blurts. He’s been thinking it from the moment he opened his eyes and felt relief wash over him at the sight of Kita’s eyes staring back at him. He pulls the _haori_ closer, his words tripping over themselves. “As often as I can. As—as often as you’ll let me.”

Kita turns. This time, Suna is certain he doesn’t imagine the smile that works its way onto Kita’s feature, the only uncomposed thing he’s seen on Kita’s face this whole time. Nothing has seemed as bursting-at-the-seams, or as unrestrained, or as lovely.

Kita leans against the open doorframe, his head tipped against the sliding door. Behind him, over the scorched remains of the gate, Suna can see the tiny buds of green beginning to burst along the bare mountain trees.

“Then,” Kita says softly, “I’ll look forward to your return.”

  
  
  


The moon is bright and full as they exit the estate, Kei’s directions echoing over their heads. Kita holds his hand as they walk. 

At the remains of the gate, Kita stops, like the barrier is a real and unpassable one. Suna crosses the threshold, his hand sliding out of Kita’s grasp. They regard each other for a long moment, before Kita says, “I’ll send you off with the purification ceremony.”

Suna steps forward and lets their foreheads fall together. He reminds himself that he will return. He reminds himself of roots. When he exhales, it’s to find Kita’s breath mingling with his own.

“Okay,” Suna says, stepping back. “Now you can.”

Kita’s smile is gentle and warm as he strikes the flint. The momentary flash of orange lights his face like a sunset. “I wish you luck in battle.”

Suna bows, the _haori_ fluttering with the crisp wind.

One day, some coming spring, Suna will retire. He’ll be too injured, or too tired, or too jaded; in any case, he’ll return to the Wisteria House at the base of this mountain, and give the _haori_ back to Kita and say, with surety, _I’m home._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! 2019 was a very busy and exciting and terrifying year for me, and pouring love into this fic was a bright spot of stability during it. I'm incredibly excited to be done with it, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3


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